Mishka: Unmasked
Mishka had always been particularly good at lying—it wasn’t even lying most of the time, just rearranging the facts, puzzling them together to make something false, even if every individual piece was true. It was like cutting up a letter and re-arranging the sentences to make a new meaning. * Mishka did not realize he actually loved Hansel until the day they both almost died. They were fighting Jonsey’s second biggest ship—whatever the fuck it was called—and there was a sorceress on board. Mishka didn’t realize it until the girl threw a lightning bolt at him. But Hansel noticed. Mishka saw it happen almost in slow motion. Hansel threw himself in front of the bolt, catching it before it hit Mishka. Hansel crumpled, the lightning spell sinking into his body. His legs gave out, and he toppled over the edge of the ship. There was a moment of gut-wrenching panic. It felt like the bottom had dropped out from beneath his feet. Like he’d stepped wrong at the edge of a cliff, and the ground had given way. Mishka dove over the side of the ship. He hit the water hard. The force of the water ripped the mask off his face, but he snatched it before it disappeared into the ocean. He tied it to his belt, then swam deeper. Oh, no, Mishka realized. I love him. Fuck, no. God, no. Hansel’s body rapidly disappeared into the depths. The man was dense, and his armor acted a heavy weight. His arms trailed limply in the ice-cold water. Mishka tore the clasp off his own cloak and let it flutter away behind him, kicked off his fine boots, and swam down as hard as fast as he could. He grabbed Hansel’s trailing body and wrapped his arms tight around Hansel’s back. He shut his eyes against the stinging cold and imagined the interior of the ship. Focusing on teleportation. Teleporting with Hansel was hard, and took the last of his magic. They vanished into blackness, then reappeared inside the ship. Hansel heaved and retched, shocked awake by the sudden teleportation. Mishka shoved him down. “Are you fucking stupid?” Mishka hissed. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? What the fuck did you think you were doing?” He ripped a healing potion off his belt and forced it into Hansel’s mouth. Hansel choked down half and threw up the rest. Then Hansel blinked up at him, eyes focusing. “Your face looks different,” Hansel said blearily. Mishka felt his face. Oh no. The magic mask was off. It still hung from his belt. Well. No use hiding it now. “I have,” he paused for a very long time. “I have… a magical mask that makes me, ah. Look however I want. This, uh. This is my... normal face with it off. It--fell off while I was rescuing you.” “So you use it to make yourself pretty,” Hansel said slowly. “Well,” Mishka said. “I mean.” Hansel stared at him. “I also use it for other things,” Mishka said. He untied it from his belt. It was a plain ivory mask trimmed with gold filigree. He put it over his face, and he felt it vanish and his appearance change. He made himself look like an orc for a moment. Then he felt for the invisible seam of the mask, pulled it off his face, and put it back on again. He made himself look like his normal perfect version of Mishka again, the facade he used every single day: the thick golden hair, the sparkling emerald eyes, the flawless peaches-and-cream skin. Hansel gripped his wrist as if to stop him. “Take it off again. I want to see your face.” “Why? I like this face better.” “Mishka,” Hansel said in a low, hard, threatening voice. Mishka felt for the seam, then pulled it off and set it down. He knew what he looked like. Not bad, but not beautiful. His hair wasn’t gold. It was an ashy shade of brown and blond. His eyes were a dirty shade of green. He had a smattering of freckles on his face. Most sorcerers had a touch of dragon heritage; Mishka specifically had a little brass dragon blood in him, and there were small, faint brass-and-green scales on his shoulders and back. He began to loosely braid his hair again. “There you have it. Natural Mishka. Pleased?” “Yes,” Hansel said. And kept looking. Mishka felt his face grow hot and stared determinedly over Hansel’s shoulder instead of meeting his eyes. He was not a boy in his twenties. He was a man over a hundred years old. He shouldn’t fucking— He shouldn’t fucking have butterflies in his gut. He reached for the mask. He felt naked without it. Hansel grabbed his wrist and stopped him, then took the mask away. Mishka grappled for it. “Hans—!” “Nope. Mine now.” Mishka bit the inside of his cheek. “What if someone from the crew comes down and sees?” Mishka said. “No one knows we’re here. Mishka. We’ve been sleeping together for—I don’t know how many fuckin’ years—” “I know.” “We’ve been married for six months—” “I am aware.” “And I didn’t even know what your real face looked like,” Hansel said. “You’ve been wearing that mask every day for almost eight years. That’s fuckin’ dumb.” “Twenty,” Mishka said. “I’ve… been wearing it for twenty. Look. I—” He paused. “I, uh, actually don’t have a defense here. Some people use makeup, alright? I robbed an ancient tomb and stole a powerful magical artifact to make myself pretty—god, I can tell I’m digging myself a deeper hole. Oh my god, I am not arguing about this with you. Look, I don’t care what you look like, I’m just a bit vain about my own appearance. Is that so bad? I—” There were footsteps coming down to the hold. Hansel shoved over the mask. Mishka fit it over his face and made himself look like Perfect-Mishka again. First Mate Coven peered around the corner. Her shoulder was soaked with blood. “Boss? I thought I heard you teleport down here.” She caught sight of them sitting in the dark among the barrels in the back, Mishka sitting practically on top of Hansel. “Ah. Well, you’re already celebrating the victory, I see.” Victory. Oh. They'd won. He’d been so tied up rescuing Hansel he’d forgotten there was even a battle. “Yes, excellent. Can you see to the crew? The usual cleanup? Get Serena to heal the worst of the wounded?” Coven nodded and left. Mishka left out a breath when she left. He wanted to take off the mask again. He felt hot inside when Hansel looked at him like that. He’d been so distracted he’d genuinely forgotten that his men were being murdered upstairs, on deck. How as that even possible? What was wrong with him? And then he had that sudden, terrifying realization again: I’m in love with him. * Hansel kept cornering him after that. He followed Mishka up to the crow‘s nest, pulled off the mask, and kissed him when no one was looking. That night, he locked the door to his quarters and slept with it off. His bare face pressed to Hansel’s shoulder. He did not sleep. Fuck. He loved Hansel. In fact looking back on it, there were a lot of alarming signs he had been in love with Hansel for a while now, maybe even before they got married—maybe even when they slept together for the first time—Mishka said out loud that he loved Hansel before, but Mishka had just sort of assumed Mishka was lying—had he been telling the truth the whole time? That didn’t seem possible. Every time he thought about it, his chest ached. Mishka did not, as a rule, love people. People were useful. People died. It was like loving a dog. No matter how much you cherished your little pet, the fucking thing was going to croak eventually. Why bother? And what happened when Hansel died? They had, what, thirty years? Hardly enough time for Mishka to even breathe—the lifespan of a dog—less than that, because Hansel was a fucking pirate, he’d get shanked, he’d get shot, he’d get thrown overboard and drown and Mishka wouldn’t see to save him next time—Hansel wouldn’t even use the goddamn shield Mishka bought him— Fuck. He had to stop this, he realized with ice-cold clarity. Category:Vignettes